232 WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. [18aO-40, That thou, even there, where spirits dwell On fields of fadeless asphodel. By glory's large, bright mere — That even there, in God's pure climes. Thou, thou wilt think of me sometimes. 0, dearest ! when I too shall go, Thy heaven's resplendent things May dance upon my startled sight. Like strange and brilliant wings, Confusedly ; then come, my love ! Come swiftly from thy house above To me with minist'rings. And kiss me on my brightening brow, Thus, thus as I do kiss thee now. AUTUMN. Gloomily strikes the coward Blast On the sad face of the Mere : To and fro are the dead leaves cast — To and fro : The Year is now but a dying Year — The poor old heir of an icy bier ! As lie goes, we must go. They have said in a glorious Land away. In a Land beyond the sea, That as Autumn here has gorgeous hues, We should paint her gorgeously. I know that the Frost- King brightly sheens The mazy wood in the cool, calm eves, And at morning the Autumn proudly leans Like a glorious woman on the leaves ; But the hue on her cheek is a hectic hue, And the splendor soon must leave her eyes, And a mist creep over the orbs of blue, Whenever the rainbow-luster flies From the larch and the ash and the maple tree. And the orchis dies, and the aster dies. And the rain falls drearily. The rain comes down on the lonely Mere, And the mist goes up from the wave, And the pale west Wind sobs low and drear At night o'er the little grave ; Like a weeping mother the pale Wind sobs Over the little gi'ave. Then the trees — that gave, in the summer time. Each one his different tone. This glad and proud as a cymbal's chime, That making a harp-like moan — All falling in with the Wind that grieves O'er the little grave and the withered leaves, Together make a moan. While the desolate moon weeps half the night In a misty sky alone ; Not a star to be seen in the misty night — The moon and the sky alone. Yet a grandeur broods over all the woe. And music's in every moan — As through the forest-pass I go. The cloud and I alone ; I face the blast and I croon a song, An old song dear to me. Because I know that the song was made By a Poet — now in the graveyard laid — Who was fashioned tenderly. O, great, mild Heart ! — 0, pale, dead Bard ! For thee on the withered grass, When the Autumn comes, and the pale Wind counts. Like a weak, wan nun, with fingers cold. Her string of leaves by the forest founts, I chant a Poet's mass ; And the mist goes up like incense rolled, And the trees bow down like friars stoled. Away ! — away ! for the mass is said, And it breaks the heart to think long of the dead : But where can I go that the Winds do not sin^ ?
